


Tempest

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Familial Arguments, Father/Daughter Relationship, Gen, Loss/Suffering, Past tragedy, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotion is a wild storm.  Weathering it is impossible, so hold on and say a prayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> This piece took on a life of it's own, especially with Iris and Jim's "discussion". There's also much more angst than I originally planned. Perhaps it's time to stop trying to control where my stories are going; the characters clearly have their own agenda. ;)

Most people take considerable issue with Mondays. Apparently, it’s something about the first day of a week being the worst, the one mocked in movies and comic strips and other variations of media too numerous to count. People seem determined to just be in a foul mood from day’s beginning to day’s end, and the other poor souls who strive for good cheer or try to put a happy face on things are just doomed to fail.

For Jim, the cursed day is Wednesday. It seems fitting, per Gotham’s twisted relationship with Fate, that he would get through the first two days with relative congeniality, reach the inappropriately-named “hump day”, and find the rest of his week promptly ruined. It happens, every week, without fail. Wednesday starts with something as small as a paper cut from the morning paper, and ends with a brawl in the bullpen that he has to keep Harvey, and sometimes himself, from joining. Harvey because, as his partner so eloquently says, “Why the hell not?” and himself because the primal part of his brain formed during the worst of his army days wants nothing more than to relieve stress by rearranging someone’s face with a fist.

Today, he awoke to the sun, for the first time in weeks, a relatively pleasant breeze drifting through the windows, and he had a tiny drop of hope. He left the house with a steaming cup of fresh coffee and home-cooked meal, courtesy of Lee, found his keys on the first try, and only sat in traffic for half an hour instead of the standard two. By mid-morning, things were looking up, as was the wondrous thought that he might have finally kicked the evil plague that is Wednesday once and for all.

Then, exactly fifteen minutes after he returns from a street-vendor lunch with Harvey, which also included a brief conversation with a couple young pickpockets trying to wrangle Harvey’s wallet from his back pocket, he’s informed the Commissioner wishes to see him in the office. An odd request, since he’s quite certain Essen is out of town for the first family vacation she’s had in years, but he shrugs it off. Perhaps he mixed up the dates.

He gets two steps over the doorway, looks up, and his hand darts to his gun in the same moment he nearly chokes on his initial greeting. That’s not the commissioner. Not even close.

“Hello, Jim.” Cobblepot—Penguin—whatever he wants to be called these days—says, leaning against Essen’s desk, hands folded neatly in his lap, head tilted in a way that does nothing but accentuate how birdlike he really looks, with a smile that promises Jim, in no uncertain terms, without another word being uttered, that the self-declared King has come to collect on his favorite lapdog in the GCPD.

And there’s absolutely no tidbit of pride left in him to deny the obvious: Jim Gordon, badge-wearing gopher for the Penguin. His father must be rolling in the grave.

“What do you want?” he snaps; he may be a lapdog, but he still has teeth, and he’s under no obligation to play nice.

“I’ll just pretend you returned my greeting with a tiny drop of diplomacy and good cheer.” Cobblepot replies dryly, rolling his eyes like an insolent toddler, and stands upright. As upright as he can stand, anyway. “Since you’re not in the mood for good manners, I’ll get right to it: your daughter thinks she can take over my city.”

 _Wait, what?_ “I can’t speak for what brain injury she suffered that has resulted in such egregious arrogance,” the smaller man continues, pacing irregularly throughout the office, “but it ends here, Jim.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” his voice doesn’t waver, and it’s a welcome sound when the rest of him feels tossed in a tornado of bewilderment. Iris, challenging Penguin to take over the city? His daughter, the child he raised for _five_ years, a mafia don? What fresh hell is Gotham throwing at him now?

“She backs down,” Cobblepot faces him now, lips tight, jaw half-locked, “or she has to go. I can forgive rude manners, Jim, but she’s gone beyond the pale. She’s taken Falcone’s manor. She’s keeping Victor for herself. She took Selina, and then she took Butch. Now she’s encroaching on my territories. I will not tolerate it any longer.”

Bewilderment for the circumstances doesn’t hold a candle to the sudden wave of fury coiling tight in his gut. He takes three steps, and Cobblepot clearly takes note of his changed demeanor, because he has the decency to swallow quietly and shift half an inch backwards. “Did you just threaten my daughter to _my face_?”

“It gives me no pleasure to do so, dear friend.” The murmur is an old game between them, feigned innocence and contrived humility, accented with a dose of endearment. “But she’s showing her true colors, and I would advise you see them sooner rather than later. It will make things much easier.”

“That is my _child_ you’re talking about.” Jim returns, fist clenching at one side.

“And if you love her, you’ll keep her safe.” Cobble—no, _Penguin_ ; he doesn’t deserve to be known by a mother-given name anymore—sighs heavily, as though this causes him great strife. Jim wants to break every bone in his face. “If she steps down now, if she hands over what is rightfully mine, I won’t touch a hair on her head, Jim. You have my word.”

***

“He did _what_?”

Peter is the first to look up at the sound of Iris’ voice, emitting from down the hall with a bullet’s resonation; Selina follows accordingly, their chess game abandoned in the wake of curiosity. She’s the first to move, gliding silently down the carpeted strip covering wooden planks; a short time later, when lingering at the door, she sees Peter join her, carefully balancing the chessboard between both hands and keeping a stern eye on the pieces, lest a single one move out of place.

Iris is behind the desk, phone pressed to her ear, eyes sharp and glittering with silent fury. Shakta, apparently not to be bothered by these events, is dozing by the window, and Zsasz is presently perched at the desk’s edge, head tilted to the left, watching Iris in equal silence. Taking care to not make a scene, Selina tip-toes across the threshold and crawls into a nearby chair, collecting all four limbs together atop the cushion. Peter sets up the chessboard on the carpet, close to the window, and begins studying the present arrangement with great intent.

“No, that is not necessary.” Iris finally breaks her silence; the hand not holding her phone in place is tapping irately on the desk. “Thank you, Officer Brewer. Good day.”

 _Brewer._ Not a name Selina can immediately put a face to, but it doesn’t matter. By her estimate, there are still half a dozen cops who Penguin didn’t manage to scoop up, and now that Butch has neatly placed them on Iris’ payroll, she has eyes and ears inside the precinct. Always a good thing to have.

“You could have had him dead weeks ago.” Zsasz murmurs, now thumbing the blade of his knife; Iris’ head slowly swivels in his direction, with a look that would make a rock garden crumble to dust. “Could have had him lying in pieces at your feet, but _no_ …”

“One more word out of you, and the garden bench will be your new sleeping quarters.” Iris says icily. Her index finger idly flicks against the desk edge for a minute, then she exhales tightly. Selina is a breath away from asking for details, but thinks better of it. Only one person in Gotham can piss Iris off this royally, and it’s probably in her better interests to stay quiet, for now.

Butch manages to break the tension, stubbing his toe against the doorframe and mumbling a curse while he hops on one leg the rest of the way. In his arms are a grand abundance of papers, the contents of which she doesn’t know, but a cat’s curiosity knows no bounds. She shifts forward, just a little, to see if maybe she can steal a little glimpse.

“Sorry I’m late, Boss.” He says, adjusting the pile in his arms. “New guy directing traffic.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” she says, rubbing at her left temple with two fingers, “you bring me a much-desired distraction. I trust your efforts have been fruitful?”

“…yes.” He says, with a downward quirk to the mouth. “Sort of. These are for all DeLaine Towers employees. I’m still working on the subsidiaries.”

“We have to start somewhere.” She answers, rising from the chair with a quiet sigh. “Let us take this into the meeting room.” Her eyes slide across the room to where Peter’s still studying the chess board, and she smiles a little. “And how is the game going today?”

Selina shrugs; she’s by no means a professional at moving little pieces around a checkered board, nor does she particularly care if she wins or loses a game, but it’s good mental exercise. Peter, on the other hand, takes these games _way_ too seriously, as demonstrated by the way he huffs and drops his chin on both hands. “It’s harder to play when your brother isn’t letting you win.”

He tosses an accusatory glare across the room, as if Dimitri can feel his wrath through walls and floors, and Iris’ smile broadens. “The only way you improve your mind is to sharpen it, little one. Keep at it, and in time you will win even against the most ruthless opponent.”

Peter seems to brighten at her reassurances, and he topples the board to clear it. “A new game, Selina!” he declares, quickly gathering all the pieces together and hurrying to follow Iris out the door and down the hallway. The blonde shrugs to herself, tucking a little smirk aside.

She’ll beat him next time, anyway.

***

 _“You have my word.”_ The words are a haunting pulse at the back of his head, a merciless band beating to their drum. Penguin’s word, promises, assurances…and they amount to what? _“No one gets hurt,”_ Penguin once said, and then there was a grown man on his knees, sobbing and begging Jim, as if _he_ had been the one with a gun, nearly drowning an innocent woman in a bathtub, in front of her husband, until information had been obtained. _“No one gets hurt.”_

 _“I won’t touch a hair on her head.”_ What credence, what validity, what trust does he even put in those words?

 _None._ But if Iris is in danger…

 _And where does that leave you, **Detective**?_ Even his own brain mocks the title, yet another emphasis on how little he deserves to wear the badge. In Penguin’s pocket, again. Forever. Just another cop working for the mob.

 _Iris…_ what would she think of him now, seeing how low he’s fallen? Would she be the first to toss a handful of dirt on his face, while he’s in this pit of guilt and shame and disgrace? Or…would she reach out a hand and pull him up?

_She is Falcone’s heir now. No different than Penguin._

_No._ He’ll never believe it. Iris will never be Oswald Cobblepot. They’re not the same.

He makes the necessary excuses to Lee, wrapped in a half-truth; it’s not a complete lie, to say something came up unexpectedly and he won’t be home for dinner. Given the circumstances, it’s almost the full truth. He just can’t muster the right words to explain everything. If she suspects the missing pieces, she says nothing; just kisses him on the cheek and tells him to “eat a good meal”. It’s code for “don’t get dinner at a hot dog stand, again.”

He stands in front of his closet for half an hour before he exhales slowly, steels his nerves, and reaches into his closet. From the back corner, he finds and withdraws _the_ jacket: his one and only black leather jacket, with elegant cross-stitching along the shoulders and down both sides, an intricate pattern stitched across the back collar that nearly resembled a sailor’s knot, and warm cotton lining the inside. His one and only, a surprise gift from Iris to celebrate their first year together. 

_“It is something wild and outside the norm,”_ she’d said, fondly smiling as he’d tried it on and found it a perfect fit, _“You need something like this in your life.”_

Perhaps he had. Perhaps he still did. Perhaps if he’d placed more faith in her words then, the rift would not be as large and deep as it was now. Perhaps, perhaps… _perhaps._

He slips into it like a glove, zips it to a solid fit around his torso, and sighs at his reflection. In the mirror, he almost passes for someone normal. Someone who doesn’t live in this God-forsaken city; a father going out to meet his grown child for dinner at a quaint little restaurant or for a movie. The image makes him sigh, again. He almost smiles. _Almost._

***

Falcone Manor is pleasantly lit for the evening; lamps mounted along the exterior give a warm golden hue and cast light along the stone path leading from gate to front door. He knocks twice, waits five seconds, and then the door opens. A tall and slim man, no older than twenty-five, greets him; he looks uniquely foreign, with dark skin and hair, sharp brown eyes, and dressed in a three-piece suit. He looks ready to host a formal dinner event, and Jim feels rather underdressed in denim and his leather.

“May I help you?” the young man’s voice is thick with a Russian accent, and Penguin’s words steal back in his ears. _Russian…_ of course; the Russian mafia had ties with Falcone, when the elder was in power. Has Iris settled in with them? How? When? _Why?_

“Detective Gordon. I’d like to speak with Iris DeLaine.” Jim answers, and he thinks the boy’s brow furrows at little, as if offended at the informality. “Is she here?”

For an uncomfortable moment, he watches the youth size him up with those large, sharp eyes; then, with a short nod, he’s allowed inside the house. He is brought to the foyer, advised that this young man will announce him to “She-Wolf”, and then left alone. The younger’s footsteps echo softly against wooden floors, down the hall, then he stops and begins to ascend some stairs, and silence follows. Jim heaves a quiet sigh, settles both hands loosely in the jacket pockets, and leans against the doorframe.

 _She-Wolf._ He remembers Don Falcone bearing another name too: _The Roman_. The Roman. The Penguin. And now She-Wolf. He never considered Iris owning a different name than her own, and part of him, the part clinging determinedly to the image of a weary and broken girl in need of a father’s protection and dedicated care, denies it, refuses to believe she belongs to this world.

The rest of him thinks it suits her. Very, very, _very well_. Maybe too well.

***

“Barney Molson,” Butch says, trading out one set of stapled documents for another and thumbing through the pages as he speaks, “Head of the Accounting Department. He’s been there twenty-some years; wife is a school-teacher at a private academy, teaching—”

“Arithmetic.” Iris interrupts, softly. “I remember her well.”

 _“Well,” but not “fondly”,_ Victor quietly smirks to himself. He remembers Mrs. Molson too, from the days when he would arrive at the school an hour early, stroll the halls to pass off boredom, and have the privilege of listening at the door while Iris’ last period was filled with verbal combat between her and Mrs. Molson. The woman got it in her head from the first moment that Iris, somehow, someway, was cheating on all her tests. He remembers Iris sitting in the park, determinedly writing in her notebook, and then asking him to proofread before she submitted it.

He does sometimes wonder whatever happened to the fifteen letters of complaint Iris filed against Mrs. Molson. Probably tossed before anyone even read them. Shame, really. They were very well written.

“They have three grown children.” Butch continues, undisturbed by the brief trip down memory lane. “He spends most of his time either at the office or at the local youth center. Which is where his… _preference_ ,” he seems to struggle with the word for a moment, “for…tending to young boys is noticed and highly praised. People say he’s being a mentor and father-figure to them. But I’ve seen guys like this one, Boss, and if you ask me, he’s—”

“Butch.” Iris cuts in, sharply and with a slight grimace—no doubt imagining just what was about to come out of his mouth. “Not in front of the children.”

Across the room, buried very deeply in their chess game, Victor highly doubts either the alley cat or the little eagle are paying much attention. Nevertheless, Iris puts an end to any further description and locks her jaw for a moment. “I have heard enough. Victor, I want you to pay Mr. Molson a personal visit at your earliest convenience.”

He leans down from his standing position behind her chair, braces both hands on the table, and rests lips at her ear. “Do I get to play with him?” he murmurs, nipping her lobe a little, just because it’s there.

“No. Send him on a vacation to the islands.” She rolls her eyes with good humor, then turns and lightly pecks his lower jaw. “Have a little chat with him and determine if his livelihood is worth preserving. The details are yours to fill in. Who is next, Butch?”

Discretion being the better part of valor, Butch says nothing when Victor lowers his face to the crook of Iris’ neck, nuzzling here, nibbling there, but calmly continues with their next subject: Marcy Waters, a secretary in the Human Resources Department. Iris declares this one exiled with barely a blink, citing no desire to keep a woman employed who spent more time on her knees for Marcus DeLaine than working at her desk. Victor smirks and purrs quietly against her pulse; she is so very tempting when playing God. He could just eat her up.

“She-Wolf,” Dimitri says from the doorway, standing at respectful attention, jaw set and brow furrowed. He looks irritated at something, or someone. If it’s the way Victor is paying due homage to Iris’ neck, the boy can just get over it.

“What is it?” she asks, gently nudging Victor aside; if she hears his discontented growl, she doesn’t show it.

The boy swallows tightly, draws in a similar breath, and then seems to collect himself. “Detective Gordon, to see you.”

Butch’s pen skitters to a halt in the middle of a note; across the room, Selina’s head lifts and turns. Iris’ shoulders, still cupped in Victor’s palms, stiffen, just enough to let the emotion roll through them, and then she relaxes and shifts upright in her chair.

“Show him in, Dimitri.”

***

Stepping inside Penguin’s hallowed halls, several months ago, had felt so very much like stepping across the Devil’s threshold: dark walls on all four sides, a fire in the hearth casting heavy shadows throughout the room, and seated upon a structure designed more like a throne than a common chair for common people, the King of Gotham, with his dark hair, pale features, clothed in black and red, with eyes much too bright and a smile much too sharp. No word could be trusted, no gesture genuine, and at the center of it all, this twisted game, this tangled web into which Jim just kept wrapping himself tighter and tighter and tighter…

The newly-painted walls of Falcone Manor are of rich colors, but they reflect the light instead of sucking it in; the dark wooden accents look less like foreboding strips of architecture and more like antiques handed down from generation to generation. This is a place of warmth and soft light, of tasteful touches that are so very Iris, from the grand piano in the front room to the gramophone in the dining area. There is a medium-sized dresser against one wall, made of dark cherry wood, and a smaller one against the opposing wall, a few feet to the left. From the foyer, doorways leading to adjacent rooms are open, smooth archways carved from the wood. The windows are large, large enough to permit plenty of natural light in the day hours; right now, they are covered with cream-colored curtains, a neat offset to the darker colors.

Jim is no decorating expert—the cheap apartments held in his own name over the years will attest to as much—but he knows enough to appreciate the crafted beauty around him. This feels like a home. A home of wealth, and status, and splendor—the means through which it has been earned are, frankly, beside the point—that is such a far cry from sterile white walls and cold marble halls. This is her home, now. It’s _hers_. She made it with her own desires, created of her own design. And it’s beautiful.

He quietly strolls into the front room, lifting eyes to a large portrait mounted over the hearth. The man is very tall, of a sturdy build, with dark hair smoothed from his brow, a neatly-trimmed mustache, and dark eyes that look grey one minute and blue the next. He wears a grey suit with dark blue accents, and his hands hold the shoulders of his female companion with tenderness.

The image of this woman makes Jim stop mid-step. She matches the man in height, sleek and slender; black hair drawn up in an elegant fashion with a few strands framing her cheeks and deep blue eyes. Her dress is velvet blue, like to compliment his, and diamonds are at her throat and suspended from both ears. Her hands are folded lightly over the man’s, setting their wedding bands on clear display.

This is not Marcus and Maria DeLaine; he saw their bodies, and even when riddled with bullets the finer details of their faces and forms could be discerned. There is a likeness to Marcus, in this other man, but not enough to be mistaken for the man himself. And this woman bears an old-world class that Maria DeLaine most certainly never possessed. But there is no way to deny the obvious: the woman in that portrait looks so very, _very_ much like Iris.

“Detective Gordon,” he turns to find the dark-haired youth standing in the threshold, hands crisply folded behind his back, “follow me.”

He does, in silence and without question. The young man leads him back into the foyer, left down the hall, then to a set of stairs trimmed down the middle with a lush red carpet, down another hall, and finally to a handsomely-carved set of doors. He watches as the boy knocks twice, then opens the doors wide. It’s all very, very similar to those months prior, being escorted by a man in an expensive suit to the King’s hall, and then the doors opened to reveal what Jim believed was the first circle of Hell.

He wonders if this will be any different.

The youth beckons him to follow, three steps in, then the former stops and turns sharply to stand at attention. A short distance away, a circular table, crafted from the same dark wood as the doors, is set with five chairs. There is no hearth in this place, only lamps molded from the Victorian era mounted along the walls to flood the area with golden light. Off to the far left, he sees two shapes: Selina, he recognizes with slight surprise, dressed the most casually he’s ever seen in dark leggings and a T-shirt that hangs loose from one shoulder, and a young boy who can’t be older than five years, dressed rather formally in little trousers and a button-up shirt. Both are carefully studying their chessboard. The boy, as Jim watches, reaches out and, after a moment’s more consideration, takes Selina’s pawn with his knight. It’s a good move.

Back at the table, he requires a moment to compose himself as Penguin’s words continue to prove true: Butch Gilzean, two chairs to the left, with an impressive stack of papers beside him, meets his gaze and offers a nod that almost seems respectful. He then begins to quietly clear the papers away, stacking them neatly and setting them off to the far side. Standing at the far wall, half in shadows despite the amount of light in this room, his gaze meets Zsasz’s, and amusement plays thinly across the other man’s mouth.

And at the table head, dressed in a violet dress with her hair loosely piled and fastened in place, Iris stands and approaches him. Her heels click quietly with each step, and his brain promptly flat-lines. It occurs to him how long it has been since he’s seen her. She looks older. She looks thinner, but somehow that doesn’t translate to her looking unhealthy. Quite the opposite, actually. She looks…like a woman.

She looks like she belongs in this world, with these people. His head spins, violently. He feels sick, but he’s not sure if the greater bodily urge is to vomit or cry. Maybe both. Maybe later.

He realizes she is studying him as intently as he is her, and the knot in his gut clenches like a vice. He wonders what she sees, in his face, in his eyes. What secrets do her keen powers of perception reveal? Can she see anything beyond the murky, muddied waters? If so, dare he even consider what she sees?

“I am glad to see you.” She murmurs. He can’t help but wonder if she’s lying.

“Can we talk?” he asks, quietly. “Alone?”

She gives him a look—the one she would give at the precinct when Harvey said something particularly irksome—but calmly turns and addresses the other men. “Butch, Dimitri, please give us a few moments.”

“With respect, She-Wolf,” Dimitri, the young man still standing at attention by the door, with dark and suspicious eyes fixated on Jim, “I do not wish to leave you alone.” _With him_ is the thing unsaid, spoken very clearly in the cold stare.

“She’ll be fine.” Zsasz murmurs, so very softly, and Jim feels his fingers twitch at the gentle sound of that man’s voice. It doesn’t suit him, now when Jim has heard that same voice raised to a level resembling a monstrous shriek. Monsters don’t whisper. Monsters roar.

Butch takes his papers and leaves first. Dimitri lingers a moment, then finally turns on his heel and walks away. Iris returns to her chair, which Zsasz pulls out and then smoothly glides back to the table, as polite as any decent gentleman. The assassin then quietly resumes his place against the wall, hands neatly folded at his front. He smiles at Jim, then nods to the chair at Iris’ left. The time for arguments has passed, and throwing a tantrum because the smug bastard won’t leave him alone with Iris is out of the question. _Bite the bullet, Gordon._

“So,” Iris says, smiling politely, once he’s seated, “what is it you wish to talk about?”

***

James tells her nothing she doesn’t already know of, barring the more personal details involved in first-hand experience that are nowhere to be found in street rumors. She knows he reads her neutrality accordingly, that his secrets have, through unknown means, been exposed. The shock he might have been expecting is not present, and in its’ absence, he understands the remaining implications. His shoulders weigh heavy even as he continues speaking, and there is a bone-deep exhaustion lining his features. Even confessing to his sins does not ease their burdens. Perhaps if she was of the cloth, blessed by man to intervene on James’ behalf before God…? But no, that is unlikely. She’s never known James to hold great stock in promises of absolution. He’s more content to carry his sins until they put him in a grave.

“Then what is Penguin’s ultimatum now?” she asks; the boredom is quite audible, yes, and she doesn’t bother to hide it. “Withdraw like a good girl, or be removed with a bullet?”

James grimaces. “I wish you’d take this a little more seriously.”

“Why should I?”

Now, he looks incredulous, and frustrated, and…well, he looks many things right now. They all muddle together in an ugly mess, one bleeding into the next so effectively that she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. “He’s out for your head, Iris. He wants you dead in the streets, and I can’t protect you from that.”

“I do not need you to carry the cross on your own.” She replies, a little annoyed at his martyrdom. “I am capable of protecting myself, James, and for the times I cannot, I am never alone.”

“I can see that.” He replies, this time with jaw clenched, and his gaze is not for her, but for the man standing behind her. It’s a cold, sharp gaze, accusing and furious. It’s a gaze she’s seen before, even if the man in question was not present to bear it.

She lets the silence linger for a moment. Across the room, Selina must be picking up on the coiling tension, because she discretely nudges little Peter, murmurs something inaudible, and together, they start cleaning up the chessboard.

“Victor,” she finally says, determinedly staring ahead, “it is quite late. Will you please ensure the children get to bed?”

“Iris—”

“ _Now_.” She adds, with cold emphasis. They will have a discussion about her ordering him around later; right now, there is a different conversation to be had, and it will be done in private.

She feels Victor’s hardened gaze on her back, but he complies without further argument. She sees him wait while Selina puts the board aside, no doubt for a rematch tomorrow morning, and then hoists little Peter onto her back, hooking both arms under his knees for support, and makes her exit. Victor follows. The doors close behind him, and she has the pleasure of seeing his dark expression half a second before the image is cut out.

Silence, once more, and then she slowly releases the breath she’s been holding in for the last three minutes. “And so we are back to this, again.” She whispers.

“I’m just trying to protect you.” He says, but the words are forced and don’t come out nearly as gentle or reassuring as she’s sure he would have liked. “That man is dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” she isn’t entirely sure why those two little words were enough to break the dam, but they must be, because James abruptly stands and begins pacing erratically in place. “Do you _really_ , Iris?”

The prick of annoyance blossoms into a full-sized cactus, needles pricking and poking and prodding inside her at all sides. “The night we met,” she replies coldly, “Victor took me out into the cold, held a box cutter to my throat, and asked me to decide where he should cut. The first option would have had me bleed out quickly; the second, the opposite. I have seen him carve a man like a turkey. I have seen him shoot a man in the back at point-blank range and barely blink afterwards. Yes, James, I know _who_ and _what_ Victor is. Better than anyone, I might add, and I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop constantly questioning that fact.”

“Then _why_ ,” he heaves out the word, and she knows what’s coming before he even finishes the question, “in the name of humanity, do you stay with him?”

“You have asked me this same question before. Twelve times, to be exact.” Her fingers fist atop the polished wood. “The answer is not going to change, James.”

He swallows with the expression of one who just swallowed a handful of needles. “You love him.” He whispers, nodding slowly, turning away, and then sharply twisting back to face her. “You love _that_.” His hand gestures in the vague direction of closed doors and whatever, or whoever, lies behind them. “ _Love_ …how could you ever—?”

“—Love the monster?” she finishes for him, tossing herself upright out the chair; the wooden legs shriek across the floor when the chair is forced backwards. “Or did you have another name for him this time, James? Freak? Animal? Demon? Psycho-murderer? Have the names become more creative since I left the precinct? Please, do share! You will not shock or disturb me, I promise. I have heard God’s plenty of rumors about our relationship from the beginning, so let me hear some more. Do they still talk about _Falcone’s rabid dog_ bending me over the autopsy table and fucking me like a bitch?”

Her vulgarity throws him for a moment, but he recovers quickly. “Don’t talk like that.” He’s too quiet, trying too hard to keep it together. She won’t settle for that. She will _not_ be the only one infuriated right now.

“Why? It is what you all think, is it not? Even _you_.”

It’s a small victory when he wheels around, mid-pace, and marches closer; finally, he’s not treating her like a little girl throwing a tantrum. Two adults can get in each other’s personal space, get in each other’s faces, and never think twice about it. “I’m glad you can be so flippant about it!” he says, half a level below yelling at her. “Do you know how often I’ve thought about you these past months, Iris? Wondering where you were, what was happening to you? If you were safe, if you were _alive_? Do you know how many times I’ve remembered our last conversation and wished I’d said something different? Made you stop before you walked out? Do you know? Do you _care_?”

“ _NO!_ ” she yells; to hell with eavesdroppers, when she’s boiling over with rage. “No, James, I do not, because, clearly, neither do you! You want me to care about all the _what if_ ’s and worries and wondering you have endured? Has it occurred to you to care about _my_ feelings? Has it occurred to you to _respect_ my feelings? _No_ , it has not, or you would not be recycling the same damned point again and again and again and again _and again_!”

“And you’re any better?” he returns, matching her growing volume. It makes her feel better; this anger, this summering rage, finally brought to full boil and tossed out in the open. “Do you even listen to yourself, Iris? You think _love_ is going to change that man? Make him something better? Make him someone who won’t _kill_ you? Is that what you think?”

“You think you are qualified to judge _love_?” the thought turns her blood to ice, then, when he confirms her statement, it becomes a volcanic eruption. If she’s splitting at the seams right now, it will not be a surprise.

“ _You_ ,” she might be screaming now, but the blood is pounding in her ears like a freight train and she can’t tell the difference, “have neither the authority nor the right to tell me about love! You will not stand here, a guest in _my home_ , and tell me you know beyond a reasonable doubt that I cannot love Victor, and he is incapable of loving me. You would not know _love_ if it marched into your personal space, looked you right in the eye, and broke every bone in your face!”

“For the _love of God_ , Iris!” he tosses his hands in the air, then clenches them, then brings them down hard between them, as though doing so might crush her words out of existence. “Listen to yourself! What that man has done to you—”

“—And while we are on _that_ note,” she cuts in, taking a pointed step forward with her finger aimed directly between his eyebrows, “That man did not touch me until I was eighteen. _Not once._ When he finally did touch me, it was because _I_ wanted him. _You_ ,” she finally jabs the finger against his chest, “have no idea what that is like. What it is like to have someone in your life to _love_ ; someone you cannot _live without_. One tends to find such a person when you open yourself up. When you _trust_ them. _None_ of which you are guilty of doing. You do not know _love_ any more than you know _trust_. And you will not throw your loneliness and your failures and the lies that make up _your_ life onto _mine_! I am _in love_ with that man, James!”

“The man who has killed in front of you.” His retort is sharp, unwavering, and she cannot remember ever being this angry, that her words are making absolutely no impact whatsoever. “Very romantic.”

“The first man was trying to kill me for a vendetta against the witless worm I once called Father.” She answers, tone lower now, but only because her vocal chords feel like sandpaper. “The second one was responsible for at least a dozen murders and was going to make me his next victim. Neither of them were innocent bystanders, James. They were out for my blood. Victor was protecting me.”

James is most certainly fuming right now, to understate it, and his hands are clenched at both hips. “Every word out of your mouth defends him. Makes excuses for him. Why does he deserve that? Why does he deserve _you_ , Iris? He is an animal. He is a killer. He is—”

She flicks her left hand up between them. The lights catch her ring and spread glittering fractals across the air. James stops mid-word and stares, mouth slack, eyes taking in the image like he’s never seen anything like it before. “He is my fiancé.” She whispers. “Very soon, he will be my husband.”

Silence, a little while longer, and he releases a broken whisper. “Why?”

“Because I love him, and life without him in it means nothing to me.” She answers, tone equally soft. “I had hoped you would be a part of that, but if you possess no desire to watch me marry him…” her voice catches, the tears finally catching up after the anger has dissolved to a dull ache in her bones, “…that is your decision.”

He stares at her, gaze blank and yet overflowing with fragmented emotion. “I have to go.” He whispers. The door falls heavy behind him, muffling his hurried exit. And then…silence.

***

She stares at the liquor cabinet for about fifteen minutes before closing and locking it for the fifth time in the last half hour. She wants to drink, wash away the memories of tonight, but it’s not worth the splitting headache and the hour she would spend bent over the toilet. She looks out the window, pondering the cold night, and thinks about a walk. That idea quickly loses its appeal too; she doesn’t want to be cold. And she doesn’t want to be alone.

Negotiating free of her clothes is a quick and easy process; slipping into her nightdress is just as easy. What is not easy is determining how to approach her lover. She lingers uncertainly, hands fisted tight behind her back, and watches him, seated on the edge of her bathtub, shirtless, with a knife reopening his tallies. He’s at twenty-five, each one of them red and fresh and bloody. He says nothing, and if he’s in any kind of discomfort from the excessive abuse to his nerves, he doesn’t show it.

She watches in silence, waiting and waiting, hoping he’ll break his own trance, but nothing. Finally, when he gets to thirty-eight, she takes a few urgent strides forward, descends to her knees, and catches his wrist in a delicate grip. He holds his silence, but allows her to slip the knife from his fingers and put it aside. Her other hand rests lightly over his arm; fingers slip in the blood, but she doesn’t move.

“Why?” she asks, very softly.

“Because I couldn’t kill him. And I wanted to.” The fingers of his damaged arm curl inward, fisting tight until the knuckles whiten and she thinks his fingernails might actually break his palm. “I listened, to every word. Every time he declared I don’t love you, can’t love you. Every time he played the old record, again and again and again, I listened. And I wanted to cut his tongue out, slowly, with the dullest blade I can find. And then feed it back to him.”

His eyes abruptly turn to hers, gaze sharp and wild, feral and furious. “He should have died tonight, Iris.”

She drops her gaze for a moment. “You promised.” Her whisper is weak, at best, and lacks any true conviction. Does she want James to die? Of course not. But he has, in the clan’s eyes, consorted with their enemy. And now he has openly disrespected her tiger, her mate. _How_ can she spare him?

Bloodied fingers take hold of her chin and force it upwards. His thumb presses into her jaw, and she wonders if it might bruise. “ _I_ love you.” The words resemble a vicious snarl more than they do a romantic sentiment, a declaration of possession.

“I know.” She whispers. Are there a thousand other things she could, should, would say? Maybe, maybe not. She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. “I know, Victor. You know I know.”

He doesn’t release her. The frantic darting of his gaze, from her lips to her eyes and back to her lips, tells her he wants to kiss her. Not as a tender gesture, but a mark of possession. She steels her resolve and jerks her head back, short and sharp and enough to communicate the message: if he’s going to touch her just to claim what’s already his, he can forget about it.

The hand on her face leaves, drops down, and rips her slip away in a single fluid motion. She sighs, mostly to herself, but doesn’t complain. She’s guilty of destroying just as many of his clothes as he is hers.

Now that he has her naked, his eyes urgently finding as many scars as can be seen, the tension fades and he relaxes. Maybe a little too relaxed, she thinks, and lifts her head to examine him once more. His face is composed, eyes steady; the blood is dried on his arm in broken, crusted trails of muddy brown. She frowns. It makes him look dirty, a far cry from his meticulous presentation, and she wants to wash it away.

Apparently, her thoughts are much too clear, because his mouth thins and one corner curls upward in empty amusement. He stands, turns a little to twist both dials on the bath, and while the water flows and fills the tub, he calmly strips away his remaining clothing. She suddenly becomes very aware of her position, on both knees before him, and isn’t sure if the precariousness of these circumstances frightens her or…

“Come here.” Victor murmurs, stepping lightly inside the bath and descending to steaming depths. He dips the arm in water, then lifts it back up. Diluted rivers of rust-red stream across his skin. He cocks an eyebrow at her; his expression is calm, but there’s still a cold fury in his gaze that unsettles her. “You don’t like it? Get rid of it.”

She pauses for a moment, pondering the consequences of being so close to him when he’s like this, then joins him. The water is hot, a little too hot for her liking, but it will cool soon enough. Both hands take hold of his arm, drawing it back into the water while she rubs the stains away. It’s clear she is creating friction across the open wounds, not because he grimaces or tells her to take it easy, but because his blue eyes are rapidly darkening and he’s giving her a familiar look.

“One of these days,” she says, retrieving the soap and lathering it thick between her palms before running the suds over his arm; how and why the motion is translated to erotic, she doesn’t know, but his eyes are honed in on her hands as though it’s the most sensual gesture invented, “you will do away with these insecurities. I do not need to be reclaimed every time James comes near me.”

“Insecurity be damned.” He retorts, eyes flicking sharply to hers. “You know what this is about.”

“Blaming him for your own mistake is not only hypocritical, Victor; it is a waste of time, and you know it.”

Silence, then his free hand glides across her cheek, shifting closer to erase space between them. “I thought about it.” He says, without real sentiment attached; it sounds less like he’s nostalgic and more like he’s recalling a simple fact of life. “All the time. How easy it would have been: stealing you away from that place, bringing you into my home, in my world, and keeping you there. Somewhere no one could take you away.”

His eyes are much too bright, and beneath his lips, teeth look too sharp. The hand on her face presses harder, fingers tangling in her hair and using the grip as an anchor. “A place where you would be mine. _Only_ mine. Where I could always keep watch over you. Hold you. Keep you close. Touch you. _All_ of you.”

She quivers at his gaze while it runs heavy down her front. There are shadows, darkness creeping over his expression, and yet his eyes are still much too bright. She suddenly feels the urge to cry. “The things I could have done to you…” he breathes, fisting the hand in her hair and pulling back; a flash of cool air hits her throat, then the heat of his breath is there, ghosting over her pulse, “All alone in my basement, stretched out across the table. Miles and miles of this beautiful white skin,” his other hand glides fingers up and plays over the roll of her shoulder, “under my knife. I could have made you cry. I could have made you scream. I could have made you _burn_. You would have never been able to look at me without the burn, the ache…the overwhelming, unbearable need for my blade against your skin, my fingers red with your blood, because we would have been together. Just us, Iris.”

“Why are you doing this?” she forces the words out; her throat still burns from too much abuse, and the choking hold of unshed tears do nothing to help. “Why do you _always_ do this, Victor? I do not need to be claimed like a lost dog. And yet every time James is here, you treat me as such. Like I need to be reminded. Stop treating me like a lost little girl. I am _not_ a child.”

He pauses, and then the hand in her hair suddenly yanks, hard, and she loses her upright balance. Water sloshes over the porcelain rim, splashing on the floor. The only thing protecting her skull from crashing into the edge is his hand, and it’s bare protection at that. He’s on his knees, other hand balanced on the rim, and one leg is pressed firm between hers, an unyielding pressure that simultaneously makes her fight for escape and press closer for more.

“Every time that man waltzes or pushes or forces his way back into our lives— _our_ lives, Iris, yours and mine, together, bound as one,” his lips are hovering above hers, ghosting, and his body is radiating heat like an open flame, “he plays God. He decides only _he_ knows who can love you. He decides I, the man who raised you and protected you for _six years_ , can’t love you.”

The tip of his tongue flicks out to taste her lips; his mouth parts to bare his teeth, white and sharp and deadly. “Tonight, he should have died. He’s wagged his tongue too damn long. He should have lost it tonight. I should have ripped it out with my bare hands. He will not speak to you like that.”

“Victor,” she flinches when his leg presses hard and refuses to yield pressure, “you promised me.”

He growls; she can feel his blunt nails scratching at her scalp. “Even now you defend him.” His voice is barely a hiss, low and poisonous. “What about him is so worth saving, Iris? He’s killed for the little bird. He’s done nothing but come between us from the beginning. He—”

“—Has he?” she cuts in; it hurts, but she forces herself upright, both hands pushing him back with another splash of water over the edge. “Has he come between us, Victor? _Has he_?”

She pushes him again, and finally they’re on equal height, fiercely holding each other’s gaze. “You kept me alive, kept me sane, when that animal had me locked away in his cage. You kept me going when I wandered the wilderness alone. You were the one waiting for me at the city edge. You are the one I have wanted at my side all these months. I am _wearing your ring_ , for God’s sake! _Has_ James come between us?”

He doesn’t have an immediate answer, and she takes advantage of the silence. “Question that again,” she whispers, hands fisting at her sides, beneath the water, “and I would just as soon have you slit my throat and be done with it. I will _not_ live in a world when you constantly challenge and doubt me.”

His eyes flick down to her throat, and she knows he’s envisioning it, imagining the blade in his hand, carving a smooth line across skin, watching the blood stream thick and fast, and feeling her grow limp and heavy in his arms. He stares, too long, too intently, and she won’t have it anymore. She throws both hands against his chest and, in the next minute, climbs free of the tub. Water follows her dramatic exit. She doesn’t even dare think of what her bathroom will look like in the morning.

“Enough is enough, Victor.” She whispers, tone cold and biting. “Stop treating me like I will one day walk out the door and never come back. I am _not_ your parents.”

It isn’t as though she can say his reaction is unexpected; she was more than aware of how her words would affect the already strained mood between them. It doesn’t dull or soften the blow when he emerges from the water like a vengeful Poseidon, lunges forward and crushes her between a wall and his body. Bruises blossom up her spine and across her shoulders, and there will be marks from his hands clenching down into her shoulders.

His eyes are wild and furious, jaw locked like a vice. And yet, she doesn’t waver, because she knows she isn’t wrong. He loved once, only once before in his life, and he loved too much. The ones who brought him into this world were everything to him. They _were_ his world. And then, in the wake of an unavoidable tragedy, his world was shattered.

Now, he loves again. And, again, he loves too much. He clings to her, fingers clutching and clawing at her like a lifeline, fierce and furious and wild. And yet he continues to doubt and question, because he couldn’t control what took his parents, and James’ presence is doing nothing but tossing him into another battle for control. The man’s control issues rival hers.

He’s shaking, violently. If his thumbs press any deeper into her clavicle, he’ll shatter the bones like a twig. She wants to push him away, free herself once more…but she can’t.

It happens very slowly, like a storm passing along its way after it batters the earth below for a relentless stretch of time. The shadows fade, dissipating from his features. His grip slackens, only slightly, and his head makes a slow forward descent, landing hard at the crook of her neck and shoulder. He’s still shaking.

Her hands lift, fingers running slow patterns over the back of his neck and across his skull, and she rests a cheek to his temple. Silence reigns between them, broken only by the shuddering breaths passing through his clenched teeth and the softer sighs emitting from her lips. At some point, the strength of his legs fails, and his weight pulls them both to the floor. She wraps him close, cocooning him between arms and legs, and tucks his face against her throat. One hand slides down his arm, finds his hand, and folds their fingers together. He responds, squeezing tightly with enough pressure to bruise, maybe even crush.

She doesn’t let go.


End file.
